


The Job Description – extra scene

by et_cetera55



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-06
Updated: 2010-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/et_cetera55/pseuds/et_cetera55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An extra scene for <a href="http://warriorbot.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://warriorbot.livejournal.com/"><b>warriorbot</b></a>’s <i>amazing</i> fic <a href="http://warriorbot.livejournal.com/1545.html">The Job Description</a> - READ THAT FIRST! (Rated 15 for scary shit!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Job Description – extra scene

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Job Description](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7086) by Warriorbot. 



**Spoilers:** None - although the original fic has slight spoilers for The Blind Banker  
 **Disclaimer:** All characters are owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s estate and are based on the wonderful new BBC adaptation – I make no money from them, I just borrow them to play with occasionally.

 

 

Just three seconds.

But three seconds was long enough for the last half hour to crash through John’s head, fear and nausea wrecking him all over again as he sees the lifeless body, the pale blue lips… and when he shakes his head, blinks to clear his vision and looks up into the triumphant face of Sherlock, obviously just about to make some bloody smart arse comment, John doesn’t even think. He just surges upwards, pressing his lips hard against Sherlock’s, his fists still clenched tightly above his head in Sherlock’s grip.

And as he hears a hitched breath followed by a barely audible moan, feels warm lips move over his own, John is nearly overcome with sweet relief.

Sherlock. Is. Not. Dead.

Blinking back the tears, John moves to pull back slightly, suddenly very aware of what is happening, suddenly remembering what Sherlock said that first night in the restaurant about being married to his work… but those elegant hands reach out to him, long nimble fingers running through his hair, urging him ever so gently back up.

Sherlock parts his lips, his tongue darting out, and now it is John’s turn to moan softly as his mouth his licked and teased and tasted. Sherlock takes full advantage and thrusts his tongue past John’s open lips and now John can… oh he can _taste_ Sherlock! Not as he had done before, in those terrible minutes when all he could taste was bile and death. No. Now as his tongue meets Sherlock’s, as he licks back into Sherlock’s mouth, he can taste Mrs Hudson’s apple pie and tea and something else… indefinable… _Sherlock_!

Without thinking John reaches upwards, clutching the scarf once more, tugging on it as he lies back down on the bed, pulling Sherlock with him, desperate for more. Sherlock seems equally desperate as he follows John down, shimmying his hips until he is straddling John’s pelvis, giving off such heat that John’s jeans, already a little snug, suddenly feel ten sizes too small…

“Sherlock!” someone gasps – apparently it is him. Sherlock takes his hands away from where they were tenderly caressing the nape of John’s neck and raises himself up slightly, looking… concerned?

“John?” he whispers softly, hoarsely.

John isn’t sure what Sherlock is asking and isn’t sure he would be able to answer even if he understood, so he falls back on the old adage of actions being louder than words and tugs sharply on the scarf once more – maybe he doesn’t hate the bloody thing quite so much now.

The concern disappears to be replaced by a look of pure delight, a look that sends happiness zinging through John’s body, and as Sherlock’s lips meet his own once more he is determined to see that look again before the night is over.

John lets go of the scarf, one hand trailing up it, reaching under it to caress the skin so abused by it, taking advantage of the shirt’s open neck to run his fingers over the collarbone underneath, eliciting a soft sigh, a slight shudder from the normally controlled, collected man above him. His other hand moves in the opposite direction, tracing over Sherlock’s ribs, his waist, down to the waistband of those fitted black trousers.

Sherlock freezes… but he doesn’t back off, his lips stay pressed tightly against John’s, his legs still tightly clasped around John’s hips… and so John slips a finger gently under the waistband, stroking the smooth soft skin, the few wisps of hair under his finger.

“Oh…” Sherlock moans against his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut. John can bear being pinned no longer and pushes himself sideways, Sherlock rolling with him, relinquishing control, trusting him. Trusting _him_.

As John gently pushes on Sherlock’s taut stomach, pushing him back into the bed before clambering to sit astride him, he is thrown off balance a little by Sherlock’s expression. It is so open, so vulnerable, so full of _want_ , flushed and panting, pupils blown wide with desire. John had done _that_.

Taking a slow shaky breath in, trying to compose himself, trying to ignore the pressure building inside his jeans, John carefully, gently lowers his hands back to the neck of Sherlock’s shirt, stroking skin and material as his fingers fumble their way down to the first button.

“Oh god, John…” Sherlock whispers, sounding strained. “You… I…” and John has to look up for a second, amazed that he has finally made the great detective speechless.

“Sherlock?” he checks, fingers still undoing buttons. “You ok?”

“God John! I _want_ you…”

John doesn’t wait to hear anything else, pulling the shirt open, his fingers roaming over the alabaster skin, the soft hair while leaning down and capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his own once more, moaning as the movement causes his groin to rub against Sherlock’s, sending waves of pleasure rocking through him. Sherlock bucks up against him in reply, nipping his lower lip, practically whimpering, his hands tugging frantically on John’s jumper.

Impatiently John pulls back slightly and lets Sherlock pull his jumper off, before pouncing once more, moving his kisses to Sherlock’s jaw, his neck, licking and kissing over the still reddened skin, rocking into Sherlock’s thrusts. Sherlock’s attention has turned to John’s jeans. He reaches between them, yanking on the buttons until they open, finally releasing John’s now almost painfully hard cock.

“No… underwear… John?” Sherlock gasps as his fingers brush against the head causing John to call out with pleasure. “Either… you were… hoping… for this…” he continues, panting, “or…”

“You…” John interrupts, punctuating his words with kisses that trail down onto Sherlock’s neck, “are clearly… not… distracted enough!” Triumphant as he reaches a nipple and pauses to lick and suck as Sherlock _squirms_ beneath him.

“Mmm?” is Sherlock’s only response and John nearly laughs out loud with delight. He moves his attention to the other nipple, his hands now working on Sherlock’s trousers. A small part of his mind wonders whether the wet patch there is from his own cock, now wet and glistening with precum, or if Sherlock is in an equally desperate state.

As he finally _finally_ manages the zip, John sits back up, gazing down at the now thoroughly debauched-looking detective, biting the inside of his lip in an attempt to stop himself coming just at the _sight_ of those dark eyes, bright red lips, long lean lines drawing his eye down, down to Sherlock’s cock, thick and hard and straining up towards him.

“Fuck Sherlock!” he cries desperately.

“Fuck John…” Sherlock replies… agrees…

And that’s all John can take – he flings himself back down, thrusting his own cock hard against Sherlock’s once, twice, three times before the throbbing pressure is just too much and he comes hard, wonderful intense waves pulsing through him, shooting through his groin, through all of him, until he can barely see through the haze of pleasure. He is only vaguely aware of Sherlock crying out hoarsely underneath him, only vaguely aware that the hot mess between them is not entirely his own.

It is 02:37 and John holds tightly onto Sherlock, burying his head in Sherlock’s neck, his fingers clutching Sherlock’s shoulders, until his shudders gently subside, the long fingers gently rubbing over his back grounding him.

It is 02:41 when John rolls off Sherlock to lie next to him on the bed.

It is 02:41:05 when Sherlock spoons up behind him, throwing an arm around him.

It is 02:42:55 and Sherlock mutters wonderingly, “I never knew. I can read everything about everyone… except myself… If I hadn’t asked you to try again…”

It is 02:43 and they both agree it was much more successful that time around.


End file.
